


Choke

by minis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dead Sherlock, Depressed John, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Lonely John, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-19 02:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9413561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minis/pseuds/minis
Summary: "Well I see breakfast on the tableAnd I can smell you in the hallsLord knows I'd cry if I was ableBut that won't get me through tomorrow" (Choke - One Republic)How could the world keep turning after what had happened? How could anyone not notice that something had shifted? How could they carry on with their lives after this?Didn’t the world feel a lesser place after he was not there anymore?Oh, Lord, he hadn’t just gone there.John almost choked on the immediate stab of pain.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> Thanks for stopping by and taking time to go through this fic.  
> This story is inspired by One Republic's **beautiful** song [Choke](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rcXea-Vadx4) . Please, let me know if you find anything I've written offending and/or disturbing and know that it was involuntary.  
>  English is not my first language, so if you spot any mistake, I'll be glad to correct it :)  
> In the story I made up that John's parents were living in London, and that he was working at a hospital: I know I'm twisting the canon, bu I hope you don't find it too strange ♥  
> Thanks again and have a good time!

** Choke **

 

 

Two months had dragged since the funerals, and John had not yet taken up on therapy.  
All his friends from work were silently watching him from afar, searching his face for any sign of instability; it was not like they were trying to have John fired for misconduct, more likely they were worried about his well-being and were wishing he would take some days off to elaborate the loss.  
John knew what was going on behind his back, and he could not help feeling frustrated by it: he had told them several times before and they should have learnt by now that he was fine and was to be left alone.  
What he hated most was the way people kept secretly stealing glances, regarding him like the little shit that he was, somehow sticking to the advise “fragile”, that by now the man was convinced to have engraved on the forehead. They threaded through conversations with him nervously, always giving off the impression they were trying their best to handle him carefully, as if John Watson was no ex-soldier, but a piece of crystal.  
If it were not for the effects that working had on him, John would have already vacated his post since a long time; instead he was finding out that working late and extra shifts was preventing him from constantly going there with the mind: and if it was fine by his bosses, he would keep working his arse off until he didn’t seize up from exhaustion; in fact, John was loving the feeling of being exhaust: it was only right to take the pain out on his body, so that when he looked at his reflection in the mirror he could see a weariness to match the one in his soul.  
Why looking healthy when he was feeling a thousand years from it?  
Of course that was something he would admit to himself.  
As long as work was still making him _better_ , there was no reason to see a doctor.

 

The hardest part was coming home to their apartment and being welcomed by emptiness.  
After the first night, John had decided he would avoid sleeping there alone, going instead for his parents’ during the week.  
When they had seen him standing on the porch, the first night, they hadn’t said a word: they had simply hugged him and let their “poor boy” in.  
John thought that if they all kept ignoring the issue, he could be fine with staying at their place:  it was only logical spending the night there after his shift, especially since his parents lived a few blocks from the hospital; moreover, the man knew that the elderly couple were relieved to have him around, knowing what he was going through: it was not like John was doing anything to fake the fact that he was mourning, so he could play along as well, and let them be happy to keep an eye on him, dismissing their duty as parents to watch over his troubled son.  
All things considered he was making them a favor.

  
After some time John found that his solutions came with faults.  
Staying by his parents was only bearable until he had to be around them for the time of drinking a coffee in the morning; or taking the coat off after coming back from work; as a matter of fact, John appreciated his parents not forcing him to open up: it did well with his own attempt at ignoring them and their concerned expressions.  
It was when he had the day off and had to actually live with them that shit hit the fan: it was like they could not help filling the room with their anxiety, and that was too much for the man. At first John had tried to spend those days holing up in his quarters, but it then became clear to him that he couldn’t spend a whole day sitting on his thumbs, with his mind free to roam and trying not to go insane.

  
One day he had simply not showed: he had taken off from work, gotten in his car and – without realising it – had driven to _their_ old apartment.  
It had been months since the last time he had been standing in front of the door: if someone had asked, John could not have said how he was feeling: it was like his mind had been silenced, but it was far from being comfortable; it felt more akin to numbness, like his brain was bracing to face something it knew it could not dwell with; it was the sign his mind was shutting down.  
Retrieving the keys from the spot under the vase, John moved without thinking. He opend the lock and got in, closing the door behind.  
Flicking the lights on felt unnecessary for the moment.  
He took a couple of steps in the hall and found himself facing the flight of stairs that lead to their apartment; somewhere in the back of his mind, he processed the fact that Mrs. Hudson had vacated the lodging: he remembered distractely when she had called him to tell she was leaving Baker Street, but at the time he had been to preoccupied with his sorrow to let the news sink in.  
John took a deep breath and all he could smell was dust and stale air; he did not know what he was looking for, but he breathed in again and he felt it: beneath the evident state of  abandon, he smelled home and it was this that triggered the reaction.  
In a moment John found his sight blurred and without knowing it, he was down on his knees, nursing the beginning of a panic attack.

He could not explain how he reached the top of the stairs, nor his old bedroom.  
He only registered hitting the bed with a solid thump and let himself enjoy the feeling of being swallowed by comforters.  
The room was dark, no light was on and the courtains were drawn back so tight that one had the impression of being in a black hole.  
Everything was tinged in black, the shape of things mixed together, adding more to the feeling of being lost in space.  
No sound came from the man as he laid there: for an instant he swore the world had shrunk to that room and there was no space left for his pain. He liked that image.  
Silence and darkness were helping him believe nothing had ever happened: maybe if he laid still just the right amount of time, he could pretend the last two months had never happened. Perhaps he could turn back time and unmake things.  
The distant sound of a car honk distracted him from his reverie.  
How could the world keep turning after what had happened? How could _anyone_ not notice that something had shifted? How could they carry on with their lives after this?  
Didn’t the world feel a lesser place after _he_ was not there anymore?

Oh, Lord, he hadn’t just gone there.  
John almost choked on the immediate stab of pain.

God, he had just made it real…

Tears began streaming down his face, copious and unnerving. What was he doing now? Crying? He had fought  the tears so long, and could not help them _now_?  
He couldn’t survive this: hell, even his lungs didn’t seem capable of making it! They were refusing to work right, and had him heaving, meanwhile terrible sobs started shaking him.  
His body was taking his toll and there was no way he could take back control. Every cell in his body ached with the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was not there anymore. That he had died jumping off that roof.  
The man didn’t know what time, nor what day it was, but he was sure about one thing: it was yet another day the world had to endure without his great friend.  
There were not enough words in John Watson’s dictionary to express the utter feeling  of being lost.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the character and I am not writing for money: this is a work of fantasy.


End file.
